


Our side

by dabs_into_oblivion



Series: ineffable husbands [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gabriel is a shit, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Not Fully Canon Compliant, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23755372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabs_into_oblivion/pseuds/dabs_into_oblivion
Summary: A long overdue conversation.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: ineffable husbands [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713622
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	Our side

His bookshop is there. Miraculously. Changed, but intact. It'll take months to recatalogue the books, to take stock of what he has and, perhaps, what he might attempt to acquire in the years ahead. Aziraphale closes his eyes and permits himself a tiny smile. The world hasn't ended. Humanity, in all of its messiness and filth and beauty and wonder, is still alive and around him.

His telephone rings.

Blinking, Aziraphale moves to answer it. "Yes?"

"We need to talk, angel."

Aziraphale shuts his eyes again, this time not to let feelings in but rather to keep them from spilling out. What more can they have to say to each other? He can't exactly tell Crowley how he feels; he's sure the demon understands love, perhaps has even felt it himself, but the possibility that he might feel for an _angel_ \-- "My dear fellow," he says, shakily and a little hastily, "I'm afraid I've got months and months of work with the bookshop. Plus, you know, Heaven might be in touch. New orders and all that."

Aziraphale can _see_ Crowley's brows knit together as he sighs into the phone. "Yes, that's part of what we need to talk about." Aziraphale opens his mouth, but "Your books can wait. I've booked the Ritz for tonight at seven. My treat." A _click_ as the line disconnects, and Aziraphale is left cradling his receiver, eyes staring blankly ahead as he tries to think of a work-related, _platonic_ excuse that Crowley might possibly have for this. He can't think of any.

Crowley, as usual, doesn't eat but rather watches his dining companion from behind the sunglasses that are beginning to go out of fashion. Aziraphale, self-conscious, is even more fastidious than usual, suppressing his usual moans of delight as he eats several of his favourite foods. Crowley drinks wine, the good stuff, the expensive French stuff, and Aziraphale drinks tea, wondering when Crowley means to talk.

They're outside, Crowley having sobered up in preparation for driving. "Come back to mine for a drink?" He's still wearing the glasses, and Aziraphale hesitates. He wants to. He shouldn't. He should. They do need to talk. Mutely, he slips into the passenger seat of the Bentley, and doesn't even ask Crowley to drive carefully. The demon glances at him sidelong as he zips through London traffic, taking shortcuts where he really shouldn't, slipping through openings that would have been too small for a human in that same car. Aziraphale's hands in his lap twist and tug at each other's fingers while his eyes gaze blankly at the dashboard.

"Angel? We're here."

Ah. He undoes his seatbelt, finding that Crowley has already opened his door. Somehow they are inside, Crowley miracling drinks into their hands and a sofa to sit on, black and angular and nothing like the one in his shop but still somehow comfortable and enveloping and cosy. Aziraphale holds his drink in both hands, willing them to stop shaking.

Crowley's hands close around his, taking the drink, setting it down. Yes. Talk. With a massive amount of willpower he manages to raise his eyes to meet the demon's. Crowley's lips are moving but Aziraphale can't hear him. He's taken his glasses off and, oh God, his eyes . . .

"Angel. Angel? Are you listening?"

Aziraphale looks down, wholly chastened. "'M sorry," he mumbles.

"No," says Crowley. "I've overwhelmed you." He looks unsure of himself in a way that Aziraphale has never seen, not in 6,000 years, and the angel relaxes imperceptibly. If Crowley is nervous then maybe it's all right. Maybe they'll be all right.

"What were you saying?" he asks.

Crowley takes a very large sip of his drink. "Right. Your trial. I need to tell you about your trial."

Oh. "What did they say? What did Gabriel -- "

"Specifically, your lack of one." Crowley sets his drink down with such force that the plants hiss from the other room. "They didn't give you a fair trial, angel. They tied you up and _left you for hours,_ and when they came back all they did was untie you and send you walking through a pillar of hellfire!" He's shouting, and the plants have gone deadly silent, and Aziraphale can't bear to see his love like this, in pain because of him.

He tries to justify it, of course, because he's a good angel. "They've always been a little like that. Ever since I gave my sword away. They've sometimes even gone centuries without checking in, I always assumed it was because I was doing fine, but of course they could have forgotten about me -- and then there was the time they almost -- " He stops. He can't let too much slip, can't hurt Crowley more than he's already hurting.

But the demon picks up on everything. "Almost what?"

Aziraphale presses his lips together.

Crowley raises his voice. "Almost _what,_ Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale draws a deep, shuddering breath. It hadn't been an _almost_. He looks longingly at his drink but thinks better of it. "Th -- " His voice comes out as a croak and he hurriedly clears his throat. "They sent me to Hell for a little while. I'd, oh, I'd asked a question I wasn't supposed to, or something, and Gabriel was in a bad mood. I wasn't actually _tortured_ , but I had to watch humans being tortured and that was almost worse." He trails off at the look of utter horror Crowley is giving him.

"I -- " Crowley opens and shuts his mouth several times. "Angel, do you know how _wrong_ that is? Even Hell wouldn't do that, and we invented torture." His voice is shaking, and God does Aziraphale want to hold him. "And your lot, they're meant to be the good guys, _not fucking torture their own!"_

"It wasn't -- "

"Oh, it was torture, angel," Crowley sneers. "You being forced to watch humans suffering? Is there any worse torture than having to watch something you love in pain?"

Aziraphale opens his mouth to argue and finds himself, instead, whispering "No, there isn't." He sits in agonized indecision, watching Crowley's chest heave with outrage, wondering if he should give in to his impulse to pull the demon into his arms and stroke his hair. And then the moment is gone. Crowley leans back.

"So," he says, "you've known for quite some time, then."

Aziraphale flushes. "Known what?"

"Don't be coy, angel." Crowley sounds . . . irritated? But his face is, as usual, inscrutable. "Your Side don't give a shit about your wellbeing as long as they get what they want."

"Crowley!"

"Well, it's true," says the demon unapologetically.

Aziraphale takes a steadying breath. "No, it isn't," he says, leaning forward to pick up his drink. "My Side is a demon who's given up on Hell."

As he takes a sip, he sees the tension leave Crowley's slender frame.

"Do you mean it, angel?" When was the last time he heard that much hope in Crowley's voice? Aziraphale shuts his eyes against the wave of feeling and nods, not trusting his voice not to betray him. When he opens his eyes, Crowley is pacing.

"Hey." He springs up, moving forward, catching Crowley's arm. The demon looks at him quizzically. Aziraphale falters. "W-was there anything else? Was that all?"

Crowley smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "No, I just wanted to make sure we knew where we stand."

_Oh._

Aziraphale screws up his courage. He has to tell him. It's the only decent thing to do. He lets go of Crowley's arm, bends down to pick up his drink again, drains it. Crowley stares.

"Have you got something to say then?"

"Yes." Aziraphale sways slightly, puts a hand on the arm of the sofa to steady himself. "Please, don't speak until I'm done."

Crowley spreads his hands in a gesture that says _the floor is yours_ , then sits.

"Right." Aziraphale doesn't know how long he can survive with Crowley looking at him like that. "So. In the interest of knowing where we stand, I ah. I have a confession to make." He pauses, straightens his bow tie. The familiar motion settles his nerves a little, enough so that he can continue. "For some time, several centuries at least, my . . . feelings for you have not been of a strictly . . . platonic nature." He blinks away the tears that threaten to derail his speech. "That is to say, I . . . I am in love with you, Crowley. I am quite sure of it. I have never felt this for any other being and I am positive that I couldn't feel it for anyone but you." He can feel the plants leaning closer, his stomach lazily turning itself over, but the worst is over. He's said it. "I just felt you should know, us being on our own Side now and all that."

Crowley stands up abruptly, taking two strides to meet Aziraphale, reaching up to grasp his shoulders as he kisses him.

Aziraphale melts, his arms slipping around Crowley's waist, his lips parting. Crowley's hands slide into his hair and he gasps, tightening his arms. He is hot wherever they touch, he is molten, he wonders hazily if this is always what kissing is like, and then he loses the ability to think at all when one of Crowley's hands slips down and tightens around his rear.

Crowley pulls him down onto the sofa, into his lap, one of his hands still tangled in the angel's blonde curls. Aziraphale is finding it difficult to breathe. Crowley rests his forehead against Aziraphale's and neither speaks for a little while.

Aziraphale breaks the silence. "Did you know?"

"Know? No, angel. I hoped."

Aziraphale slips a hand into Crowley's. The demon takes a shuddering breath.

"I thought you knew and didn't want me."

"Oh, my darling -- "

"When I thought you were dead," his voice breaks, "I hated myself for not telling you. But when you were back, I couldn't tell you, because the world was ending and then it wasn't and we had to swap bodies and then we had lunch and you were so _normal_. Like you'd forgotten the argument we'd had. So I thought you wanted to forget it, but then when you went home I realised I might never see you again. So I thought I could tell you, but then I lost my nerve." He buries his face in Aziraphale's shoulder.

"I had no idea," Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley gives a watery chuckle. "Aziraphale, I've loved you since Eden."

Aziraphale gently slips a finger under Crowley's chin and lifts it, waits for a few moments, then closes the distance between them.

A long while later, the angel says apologetically, "I don't suppose I could spend the night?" To which the demon replies, "Don't be ridiculous, angel. I'm not letting you go anytime soon."


End file.
